Chronicle of the Rose
by RainbowMoose
Summary: Probably gonna change the title. Whatever. Anywho, a story in which Alfred's a son to poverty stricken farmers. Arthur's all aristocratic and not exactly normal. They meet by chance and things happen. Y'know, love and blah blah blah. It's still a work-in-progress and stuff, so any critique or suggestions are much loved.
1. Prologue (Kinda)

"_A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,"_

Alfred's lips slowly mouthed the words as his eyes scanned across the page. The words flowed from his tongue, flipping off the end of it and dancing into the air with ease. They were so beautiful, so sweet and poignant, so true.

He smiled softly and let the book drop to the counter; the tattered book landing with a muffled thump. Shakespeare. A guilty pleasure of his. 'There's nothing wrong with enjoying a bit of Shakespeare.' People would say, their prim and proper fingers gripping the slim copies of the books. They'd stare at him over the rims of their thin half-moon glasses, eyes silently judging the rough and sun-kissed boy with the tousled hair and crooked smile.

It wasn't his fault he hadn't been born into the lap of luxury; it wasn't like he chose to be born on a farm. He didn't ask for his mother to give birth to him in the hayloft and raise him like he was just another pig she was going to send off to slaughter just as soon as he was big enough. If he'd been given the choice...Well, he didn't know what he'd pick.

Maybe he'd choose to be born into royalty...A prince! Prince Alfred, heir to the throne of England. Yes, that would be wonderful. He would be born to a kind and gentle mother, one that would coddle him when he was hurt and hardly ever raise her voice. His father would be a strong man; he'd be a wise and noble king. One that ruled with an iron fist but loved with the tender heart of a poet. His family would be perfect. They wouldn't scrape to make ends meet and Alfred wouldn't be scrambling from job to job, desperate to do what little part he could.

But no. He'd been born to Penny and Willis Jones, 4th generation farmers on a plot of land that might as well have been made of stone. Nothing grew on their farm; even their hopes and dreams seemed to be starting to wither. Money was nonexistent and the animals were reaching their expiration date.

Life was tough, but it wasn't exactly the hardest thing to got by in whatever way they could. If that meant Alfred had to work in all his spare time, then he'd skip out on book club and do whatever it was he had to. Sometimes he'd get discouraged, but when he did he just had to remind himself that there were other people who had it worse. Much worse. He had a roof over his head, food on his table and clothes on his back, didn't he? Sure, his life was full of hardships, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

He could be stuck in a situation like Romeo. He could be torn from his true love just because they came from different background. That would just be horrible. Ah, Alfred didn't think he could handle that. To be torn from the one he loved at all would be punishment enough, but to see his true love dead in front of his eyes...That would be a pain he wouldn't want to see.

"Ah, pardon me, but do you have any scones?"


	2. Chapter 1

Alfred couldn't speak. Alfred couldn't say a word. It was like his tongue was tied into a million knots and his throat was suddenly full of lead. He stared at him, lips parted slightly and mouth

"Sir...Hello?" The man quirked an eyebrow at him. A surprisingly thick eyebrow, actually. Not really bushy or unfortunate, just thick. It was dark in color and curved perfectly over his green eye, framing the socket and making the green just pop out from behind the thick, black lashes.

His eyes weren't what stunned Alfred into silence though.

The man was in a wheelchair.

Not a motorized power chair, but a real, authentic wheelchair. An older model, one that looked like it could be from 1910. One that looked like it creaked when it rolled and got stuck if it wasn't oiled enough.

The man in the chair looked like he could stepped out the same time period. His hair, though rather rowdy and unkempt, was a nice shade of blonde, lighter than Alfreds. It stuck up in a few places, falling just past his eyebrows with sideburns that whisped down past his ears.

His face was nice, quite angular and sturdy. His eyes were a deep shade of emerald, dark green and shimmering, quite mysterious too. His cheek bones stuck out and had the tiniest tint of red to them. Blush, maybe? Alfred couldn't tell.

Alfred could hardly breathe.

The man was just so, so dapper! He wore a argyle print sweater vest over a long, button down white shirt. His pants were tan, not too tight and not too tight, but touching his frame perfectly.

He looked like the perfect gentleman.

In a wheelchair.

Right. Okay. Yeah.

"Sir? Are you alright?" The man repeated, wheeling closer. Sure enough the chair let out a soft creak as he rolled forward, staring quizzically up at Alfred.

Finally, Alfred nodded, his cheeks a few shades darker than they had been.

The guy was British. Seriously British. Did he mention that?

"If you're alright then I'd really like it if you'd wrap up a few dozen scones for me." He stared up at him, his rather well-built arms crossing over his chest almost defensively.

Oh...Alfred was staring at the chair. He hadn't realized it but his eyes had been glued to the chair since he'd rolled in. "Ah...Yeah. Sorry. I'm just a little...Preoccupied, I guess." He smiled sheepishly and rubbed at the back of his neck, quickly averting his eyes from the chair. After a deep breath he clapped his hands down on the counter, his usual beaming smile returning. "So! What can I get you?"

"Scones." The man said rather heatedly, his emerald eyes glaring into the glass case the held the pastries. "If that's too hard I don't mind going somewhere else."

Alfred chuckled and shook his head. "I think I can manage. Anywho," He ducked down in the case, poking around with tongs. "What kind? We've got plain, chocolate, stra-"

"I don't care. Just give me twenty or so of whatever kind you've got." He muttered, tossing a hand around in the air.

"Twenty...That's a lot. I dunno if we have that many." Alfred's brow furrowed and he popped his head up over the counter, letting his chin rest against the cool glass. He was eye level with whoever this guy was now.

Ah, his eyes really were amazing.

"Well, give me however many you've got. And get your chin off the counter! Filthy." He tutted and glared at him. "Maybe I will just go elsewhere."

"No, no. No need to be drastic." Alfred threw his hands in the air, tongs and all. "Just calm down and I'll have your scones and you'll be out the door in no time, 'kay?"

"Fine. Just hurry."

Alfred nodded and started placing the round and puffy pastries into a box, layering them carefully and making sure each one stood as straight as it could and didn't tip and crumble.

"I do believe I asked you to hurry, not build a damn tower out of dough. I've got a deadline."

"Okay, okay." Alfred shook his head and started placing the scones in more haphazardly. "What's the rush anyhow?"

"Mum's got a book club going on. Apparently the group got sick of her shit scones and sent me here to buy some." The man smirked slightly, his eyes following Alfred as he rose up from the case. "She's going to try and pass them off as her own"

"Is she? Well, I'm sure she'll be pleased. I'm not just blowin' smoke when I say these are some of the best scones this town has to offer. And you cleaned me out of them!" He grinned at him and pushed the box forwards. "So, that's fourteen scones, usually a buck apiece but I'll knock 'em down to half that since you bought so many...That's seven dollars, if you don't mind." Alfred held out his palm, his other and resting on his hip.

The man nodded and turned around in his chair, groping around in the bag he had slung over his chair, pulling a simple leather wallet from it. "Dollars...? Oh, bollocks."

"What? Don't have enough?"

He sighed and shook his head, pulling out a few brightly colored notes. "That's not it. I've got the money, it's just not in dollars. I probably should have borrowed some from mum before I left." He sighed again and glanced up at him.

Was he blushing? Yeah, it looked like he was blushing. He was definitely blushing.

Then again, so was Alfred.

"Will you take them? Please? She's going to be livid if I don't come home with them." The man held the money up to him. Ah, he looked like a pleading little puppy. "Please?" He repeated, his hand shaking the money in Alfred's direction.

Alfred chewed at his lip for a moment. If he took the money that meant he'd have to go and exchange it himself. Well, that or get chewed out by his boss for taking money they couldn't really use. "I'll tell you what...You take the scones today and bring me the money tomorrow. Or whenever you can."

"Alright...But how do you know I'm not going to rip you off? Maybe I use the chair for sympathy. 'Oh, look, poor little wheelchair-bound British boy needs scones for his mummy.' Oh, what a sob story." He smirked up at him and took the scones from the table, setting the box on his lap.

"I don't think you'd do that."

"And how do you know that? You don't know me. At all."

"Maybe I'd like to." Alfred shrugged and stepped away from the counter, smiling innocently at him.

That seemed to visibly shake the man, his cheeks reddening and his eyes going wide. "Ah, well, yes...Alright. Fine. Whatever." He muttered and turned his chair around, the wheel knocking against a heavy shelf. He blushed an even deeper red and moved away from it, wheeling quickly at the door.

"Can I get your name, stranger?" Alfred called, waving at him.

He glanced back, cheeks red and eyes hardly slits. "Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"I'm Alfred. You'll be in with my money tomorrow, won't you?"

"Yes, of course." Arthur nodded, fumbling with the door. Ah, it wasn't going to open for him, was it? He grunted and pushed against it, his chair bumping against it to get it to move.

Alfred chuckled and stepped out from behind the counter, jogging over to him and pressing it open for him, holding it as he wheeled out. "See you tomorrow, Arthur."

"Whatever."

* * *

_Notey thingy: Hi, so, sorry, this is probably really rough and stuff but I just wanted to get this out for criticism. Not really on grammar or spelling or that fancy shizz, but more for content and general feel of the story._


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